


The Best Worst Birthday

by NoBrandHero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Birthday, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Sburb, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:32:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBrandHero/pseuds/NoBrandHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your dad frowns at your temperature and your feverish mind can only interpret it one way: You're dying. You're fucking dying on your birthday. This sucks. You were really looking forward to the new Batman movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Worst Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 4/13! Didn't think I'd be posting anything for today, but then inspiration struck and another sickfic got written. Also, I'm branching out a little and trying my hand at second person again.

You feel the tickle in your throat the night before. It doesn't hurt yet, but no amount of water can quench your thirst. You're also tired, ready to log off Pesterchum and crawl into bed well before ten; your dad doesn't need to nag you even once.

You wake up on your birthday with a full blown fever.

You hide your face against your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut against the light pouring through your window. Your head _hurts_. It's not a soreness so much as a throbbing, as if your brain has expanded twice its size and wants to squeeze out of your skull. It doesn't help that your nose is so plugged up that you're forced to breathe through your mouth, all while your throat feels as if someone's taken a cheesegrater to it.

Why would your body _do this to you_? Just a few hours ago you were... Well, you could have been better, but you didn't want to drill a hole in your head just to relieve some pressure. It's not even a school day. You're wasting your birthday and your _weekend_ on a cold.

There's a soft knock at your door. "John?" Dad says. "I know you want to sleep in today, but it's almost ten."

You let out an incoherent mumble and a groan in reply, burrowing into your blankets. It's really cold, cold enough that you wonder if the weather's having a late return of winter.

He calls your name again and cracks the door open to check on you. Without another word he comes straight up to your bed and places a warm, warm, warm hand against your forehead. He moves it to your cheek, then the other one.

The body heat feels so comforting that you kind of wish he'd stay there and keep your face warm with his big adult hands, but instead he whispers something about being right back and leaves you for a few minutes.

He returns with a bottle of water, a box of tissues, and an ear thermometer. He sets the first two on your dresser, then gets the thermometer ready. It's a digital device you remember him using the last time you had a fever scare and you shudder as the cold plastic slides into your ear. He sets his free hand over your head to both reassure and steady you, waiting a good ten seconds at least before you hear a beep from the thermometer. He pulls it away to check the results.

He frowns at your temperature and your feverish mind can only interpret it one way: You're dying. You're fucking dying on your birthday. This sucks. You were really looking forward to the new Batman movie.

"One hundred and one," he says, picking off the disposable plastic at the tip of the thermometer and throwing it into the nearby wastebasket. "That's pretty nasty but probably just a cold."

"I'm okay?"

He nods and strokes your bangs out of your eyes. "If it goes up more than two degrees, though, I'm taking you to urgent care." He sighs. "This would happen on the weekend, when all the normal clinics are closed."

You grunt, scowling.

"Yes, and it's no fun for you either. This must be the worst birthday present you've ever gotten, huh?"

That Bozo the Clown biography he gave you last year was pretty lame, but you relent that he's mostly right.

He helps you blow your nose -- uuugh, the tissue is coated in no time but it feels as if your nostrils have an unending supply of concrete-consistency snot -- and get some water down your throat before tucking you back under your covers. He sits on the edge of your bed, rubbing your back, until you fall asleep again.

It's even brighter out when you wake up a couple hours later. Of all the times for the clouds to break into a sunny day, it just had to be the same day you want to horribly murder sunlight.

The extra sleep has done nothing. You still feel _miserable_ , made all the worse by the new urge to pee. You crawl out of bed, shivering in the cold air, and stumble to the bathroom in a tired haze that grows fainter with each step. Dad steps out of his room long enough to check on you, but you wave him off.

By the time you snuggle back under your covers, the ability to pass out has left you. You're still tired, and your head still wants to explode, but you can't sleep even when you curl into a ball and pull the blankets over your head. You're sleepy and sore and bluuuh and _bored_.

You give up. You fumble for your glasses and wrap a blanket around your shoulders before making the trek across the room. You collapse into your chair and boot your computer up from sleep mode, flinching as the backlight of the monitor hits your eyes. You can barely even look at the screen. It's like staring into the sun.

You sign into Pesterchum first thing and there's a short message from Jade already waiting for you from a few hours ago. It takes you an embarrassingly long amount of time to read, with how much you blink at the bright screen.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 10:32 --

GG: happy birthday john!!! <3   
GG: feel better soon ok? :(

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 10:33 --

You are pretty dang sure you did not mention feeling on the verge of a cold last night. You're certain you hadn't told her because you hadn't even realized it was an uncoming cold at the time.

She's still online, but before you can contact her to ask if she was referring to your fever, Dave beats you to the punch and opens a chat with you.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 13:56 --

TG: hey youre late   
TG: did you get my package yet   
GT: it's sunday, you douchewipe. i'll get it tomorrow.   
TG: oh   
TG: right   
TG: shit   
TG: shouldve sent it via helicoptor   
TG: armed with its own personal guards to make sure your birthday present actually gets to you on this goddamn fated of days where no postman roams and no chickfila is open   
TG: guess i oughta wish you a happy birthday or something to make up for this severe lack of fucking foresight   
TG: hows that going?   
GT: i'm sick.   
TG: damn right you are   
TG: sicker than snoop dog breaking down some sweet ass rhymes am i right   
GT: no, i'm actually sick. i may sneeze my brains out soon.   
GT: there is like literally snot everywhere.   
TG: ew   
TG: dude its your fucking birthday   
GT: i knoooow. :C   
GT: it fucking SUCKS. my throat hurts and i cant breathe and it hurts to even stare at the computer screen.   
TG: uh maybe dont do that then   
GT: but i can't sleep and i'm bored.   
TG: so go be bored somewhere that doesnt hurt your goddamn eyes

You cannot believe you are getting scolded by a Strider. If you had a quarter for every time he was online when he was sick, or when it was well past his bedtime, or for some other reason that was probably hazardous to his health, you would be richer than his puppet pornlord creep of a brother.

You're in the middle of telling him as much when Rose contacts you.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 14:13 --

TT: Hello. Did I time my postage correctly so that you received your present a day early, or will it be fashionably late instead?   
GT: oh yeah, i got it already!   
GT: thanks!! :D it's awesome.   
TT: Good.   
TT: In that case, happy birthday.   
GT: heheh, thanks again!   
TT: Is it a good one so far?   
GT: it's ok i guess. not doing much, just hiding in my room and being bored.   
GT: so it's pretty lame actually.   
TT: Really? Dave says you're sick.   
GT: what?? oh, that fucking nark!   
TT: To be fair to him, he mentioned it in passing, not in an attempt to rat you out.   
TT: Why? Is there a reason you'd keep this information hidden?   
TT: Did you catch a virus so rare that it's an FBI secret, John? Is the government going to smash down my door if I know?   
GT: pffff no. nothing that fun.   
GT: i'm just kinda feverish and dave thinks i should get off the computer.   
TT: DAVE thinks you should get off the computer.   
TT: Are you dying?   
GT: nooooo! god!!   
GT: i'm just sick and my head hurts like a motherfuck and i guess my eyes are watering from the computer screen.   
GT: it's no big, ok?   
TT: John.   
TT: Listen to me.   
TT: I am speaking as someone who has no personal stakes in your short-term well-being. It is in fact more desireable for me if you ignore this advice and stay online to give me company.   
TT: Go the fuck back to bed.

That's two friends nagging you to do a thing you don't want to do. As you wipe at your simultaneously burning and watering eyes, you suspect they might have a point.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 14:24 --

GG: go back to bed before you make yourself dizzy you silly!!

Make that three friends. Bluuuh.

You send them all begrudging farewells and turn off your monitor. Sure enough, when you stand, you're hit with such a strong dizzy spell that you crash to your knees with a thud. How does Jade predict this shit?

You only need a moment to keep your head still and you know you could climb into bed on your own eventually, but your dad must have heard you from the other room. He's by your side within half a minute and helping you back to your feet.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he asks softly as he leads you to your mattress.

"I couldn't sleep. I _tried_." You're whining a little, but dammit, everything hurts on your goddamn birthday; you deserve to whine if you want to.

He nods, tucking you back under your blankets anyway. He rests his hand over your forehead again before he asks, "Are you hungry?"

Your stomach is probably long since empty, but it twists at the thought of a meal. "Food sounds like shit," you mumble.

"Well, I whipped up some soup." He removes his hand. "You should at least give it a try."

You grunt in reply, snuggling deeper into your blankets in hopes maybe you'll miraculously pass out this time.

You're still awake -- and bored again, so bored, bed is boring -- when he returns with a bowl of soup in one hand and a couple of wrapped presents tucked under his arm.

He settles on the bed next to you, helps you sit up with your back against the headboard, before he passes you a warm lunch. It's a chicken soup and you can't even smell it when you bring it right up to your nose. There are no noodles, only veggies and chicken bits chopped so small you almost don't need to chew. You sometimes forget your dad can cook more than pastries.

It's good, you guess, but another disappointment to add to the list of ways today sucks. This was going to be a junkfood day; you were supposed to order pizza and make tacos. Instead the mere thought of cheese turns your stomach. (Oh god, don't think about the grease, don't think about the grease, you idiot.)

He doesn't make you eat the whole thing, doesn't even say a word when you hand the bowl back. He just sets it aside and pats your head. You sniff and he places a tissue in front of your nose. You almost feel something dislodge this time, but you still can't get any air through your nostrils.

He tosses the tissue into the wastebasket and reaches for something he'd set beside the bed. "How about we open these?" He passes you two presents, one small and rectangular, the other long and tube-like, almost certainly a poster. "It's still your birthday and I figure you could use something to cheer you up."

You almost manage a smile for what feels like the first time that day. As you pull off the wrapping paper, that almost-smile becomes a genuine grin. He got you the Suburban Commando DVD and a Ghost Dad poster. There's not even a single clown-y thing hidden in the packaging.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you in close for a hug. "Happy birthday, son. There's never been a day in these past twelve years that I haven't been proud of you."

Your manly twelve-year-old pride thinks you should shove him away and act indignant by this sappy display of affection, but the warmth (and maybe the sentiment behind it) feels really good right now so you humor him. "Thanks, Dad."

Your lunch conquered, he helps you slide back into a lying position, safely tucked under your covers. You watch him as he moves your presents to a safe location then returns to your side, lying next to you with his back against the headboard and checking your temperature with his hand again.

Even if he is stupid obsessed over clowns, you really are glad he's your dad.

"Dad?" you say once you're both settled. "What was my mom like?"

"Well, I don't know, John. You fell from the sky and I never met your genetic parents."

You groan and roll your head back against the pillow. "Aw, Dad, c'mooon... I'm twelve now. I'm too old for that story."

"I don't know how to help you then." He strokes the side of your face. "You'll just find out the rest on your own someday and then you'll understand."

You frown. "Promise?"

He smiles back at you. "Promise."

"When?"

"Hm." He tilts his head as he considers. "Maybe your next birthday?"

That seems like a criminally long amount of time to wait to learn your family secrets, but you suppose thirteen is a pretty appropriate age for it. "Fine."

You snuggle in against his side and he rubs the back of your head until you drift back to sleep.

It's dark and you're alone when your eyes flitter open again, but it's still April 13th. Your alarm clock reads 9:22 in glowing green numbers.

Your cold isn't gone. Your throat hurts and your nose is plugged up, but you can get a little air through one nostril and, most importantly, your head doesn't feel like it's trying to kill you anymore.

"Dad?" you call as loudly as you can without irritating your throat. You worry he might have gone to bed early or be downstairs and out of range, but your door opens after only a few seconds.

He comes over without even turning on a light and rests his hand on your forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Kinda like shit, but not as much shit, I guess."

He lightly tousles your hair. "Good."

You swallow. "Is there still time to watch Con Air?"

He glances at the clock. It's a two-hour movie and he has work in the morning (and you technically have school, not that he's likely to send you if you're still even a little sick), but after a deep breath and a moment to consider, he nods.

You could walk, but he wraps you up in a blanket and carries you downstairs all the same. He gets you a Ginger Ale and you both agree that reheated soup still sounds preferable over the salty grease of popcorn. He gets the movie started and you're both relieved when your eyes don't tear up at the sight of the screen. He sits close enough to you that you can cuddle for warmth whenever you want, which you might, sometimes, when your symptoms flare up, but only then.

You high-five him when Cage puts the bunny back in the box and for a few minutes you almost forget you're sick.


End file.
